


The Times They Are

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [76]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 09:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lancelot tries to adjust to his new life, again.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Lancelot Benoit
Series: Live By The Sword [76]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/50060
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	The Times They Are

**Author's Note:**

> Set close to **3 Days** in this same series.

The longish hair at the back of his neck tickled; Lance ran a hand through it, his shoulders raising self consciously as he waited at the front of the salon. He’d thought coming early in the day might be the best time, as they tended not to be so busy then.

Ah, Saturdays. Bad idea.

“Carri will be out in a minute, Lance,” the girl at the desk called out, her voice loud and chipper as she yelled to him. He made a face - _please don’t draw attention to me_ \- but nodded as he shrunk down in his chair. The waiting room was packed, and not a few glances had been thrown his way as he slumped as low as he could. Damn it, damn it. Stupid idea. Arthur could have just trimmed it for him and he wouldn’t have had to go through this –

“Lance!”

“Hi, Carri,” he said, the words rushing out gratefully as he rose and took her arm. “Listen, I just need a quick trim, nothing fancy, and I thought you might be able to squeeze me in…” he broke off at the frown on her round face. “What?”

“I’m booked solid, honey,” she babbled, walking him backward, forcing him toward the door of the salon. “I wish I could, but if you’d called,” she sighed. “Can you wait till next week? Or maybe the following one.”

He bit his lip and looked around. “Um, sure,” he answered, “I guess. But it won’t take but five minutes -”

She’d already bustled off, taking a short, blond woman with a bad dye job back into the back with her. Lance stared after them, his mouth open, his head cocked at a strange angle that made his neck ache. Carri had always made time for him, had come to his home, had fixed his hair – and had gotten him some other things – at the drop of a hat. Until now – until this change in his life and his status.

He bit his lip and stood there until someone pushed at his shoulder. “Mister? Can you either move or stop imitating a door stop, please?”

Jerking his head around, Lancelot shoved past the speaker and hit the door, the bell on the top tinkling as he did. A few voices rattled around in his head, but the only one that stuck out was his own, the one that screamed _bad idea, bad idea, bad idea_.

He rubbed at his broken nose and slid his sunglasses from the top of his long hair to his eyes, his Thunderbird started, himself behind the wheel before he’d even realized what he was doing.

*

Sunset was jammed full of traffic, the horns blaring, lights changing at the speed of a snail, people walking everywhere. Lance wished he’d put the top up on the car; he kept getting looks at the signals he was stopped at.

There – thank god. He slid the car into a tight space in front of the Bean, and leaped out over the door, his hand catching the metal frame quickly. The sunglasses stayed in place, and he tapped his foot impatiently as the line moved slowly inside.

Ordering his latte and Arthur’s mocha went smoothly, and Lance lifted the glasses to the top of his head to more closely examine a summer plastic mug that would go perfectly in Arthur’s kitchen. He lifted it, checking the price on the bottom, the hair that curled around the bottom of his right lobe tickling again. He batted at it, shoving it away, his eyes intent on the mug.

“Mr. Benoit, here’s your things,” the barista sang, and he lifted his head, normal smile on his face.

Two reporters he recognized on sight were staring at him, their faces lit up, their hands already pulling phones from their pockets. The grin his mouth had held dropped, and he automatically pulled his glasses back down over his face. He couldn’t back up as the Bean was too crowded, and the barista was watching him, his expression open and happy as he held out the drinks. Lance slunk around the crowd, snatched up the two cups, and beat it to the door, hoping against hope someone would push the reporters out of the way, making their exit from the store impossible.

Fuck.

One of them held the door open for him as he scuttled through, trying to pretend he didn’t know who they were, a crab hunched over his soft belly, the shell he thought about constantly soft from disuse. Fuck, fuck fuck. He made it to the car, but the dark haired one caught him as he was setting the drinks in the holder, just about to open the Thunderbird’s large metal door.

“Mr. Benoit! So good to see you about! How’s the schooling going? Who’s getting you to class? How’s Guinevere?” the man rapid fired questions at him even as he slid into the leather seat, the sunglasses effectively keeping the reporter – Marx – from seeing the murderous expression on Lancelot’s face. He started the engine and smiled tightly.

“Get off my car, please,” he said quietly, the sound of the traffic around them almost drowning him out. Marx took advantage of that and leaned over the open top of the convertible. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that,” he chirped, holding the phone he held in his hand out, close to Lance’s mouth. “Did you say your sister is doing a bang up job of continuing in your father’s footsteps?”

White filled his vision, and Lance’s smile got wide and spots floated on the surface of the expensive glasses. The other reporter had joined Marx at the edge of the street, and Lancelot shoved against both of them with the big door of the car as he rose and got out. “Get off. My car,” he repeated, pushing the door wider, the crack in his nose aching violently, the new break screaming as the blood thundered in his brain, the two men stumbling backward as the force of the metal shoved them.

“No need for violence,” the second man stated, looking first from Marx then to Lance. He spread his hands and smiled. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

Lance’s hands, empty and silent, roared to life as they formed fists, filled with anger and tightness and every bit of wrongness that he’d experienced his entire life.

*

The two squad cars that showed up in answer to the call from the worried barista at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Sunset were gone by the time Arthur pulled up on his Bonneville, the engine over-revved and hot from his 100 mph drive to the store. He ripped his helmet off, tugging painfully at his right ear, setting the thing on the bike and shoving through the few people that were still watching the man that sat hunched on the trunk of the large hulk of a car. He flashed his badge and made a shooing motion, frowning dangerously. That and the combination of the riding leathers he wore – and the gun at his hip – forced them to turn away disappointedly.

Lancelot was holding two drinks in his hands, and perfunctorily handed Arthur one when he came up to the car gingerly.

“Here’s your mocha.”

Arthur sighed and set the drink down, facing Lance, standing a few inches from his legs. The coffee was stone cold. And beside the point. “Are you all right?” He reached out and took the ear piece of the sunglasses Lance wore between thumb and pointer finger, gently pulling them off the other man’s face.

“Don’t you want the coffee?”

“I’ll drink it at home, Lance. Are you okay?” Arthur’s face pinched when he got a look at Lance up close. He touched the edge of his cheekbone lightly, the bruise coming up nice and purple and large. “What happened?”

“They leaned on my car.” Lance made the statement short and to the point; he lowered himself from his seat on the trunk and moved to the driver’s side door, wiping at a nonexistent scrape. Arthur followed him slowly. “I was just trying to get coffee.”

Arthur touched his shoulder. “I know you were. I spoke to the barista here, on the phone, before I came. Lance, look at me.” He gripped Lance’s upper arm and pulled at him, trying to be gentle, but his worry and the other man’s black eye – he stopped when Lance jerkily stood up and faced him.

“Everything’s different,” Lance whispered; the words were harsh and cold and bitten off. His eyes were large and round and liquid, and Arthur stepped closer, his hands taking hold of Lance’s biceps as the other man threatened to try and run off – or something Arthur didn’t want to even think of. He pinned Lance to the car, his leathers pushing against Lance’s jeans, Lance’s butt resting on the edge of the window frame.

“What do you mean? Lance – are you hurt?”

“Of course I am!”

The sentence was a shout that drew too much attention, and Arthur attempted to shush Lance by making calming noises, but the other man managed to jerk his arms out of Arthur’s grasp and shove him away. “I can’t even get a fucking haircut in this town anymore. I can’t get a coffee without being harassed by assholes that don’t have anything better to do than bother me while I’m trying to get our drinks. I can’t drive down a street with my top down without strangers staring at me, wondering where they’ve seen my face. I can’t even get my hair cut, Arthur! I can’t even do that!”

He was pacing and waving his arms, the Saturday night crowds beginning to form gradually stopping and watching as they passed in front of the Bean. Arthur rushed to him, catching his arms again, the smooth skin slick in Arthur’s hold. Lance’s flesh goose pimpled – wearing only a simple tee shirt, the wind was whipping through his clothing easily. Arthur took off his riding jacket and made Lance slip his arms through the sleeves, tugging the jacket around him. “Come on,” he soothed, “let’s go get another coffee, okay? Then I can look at your eye.” He made the suggestion simple and direct, hoping the idea of routine might help. Lance looked at him, the short , sharp breathing he was doing slowing gradually under Arthur’s gaze.

“Are the reporters gone?” he asked, rubbing his nose in a pathetic gesture that made Arthur want to hit someone himself.

“Yes, Lance. Come on, let’s go inside. Come with me,” Arthur pulled gently on Lance’s hand. The two men went back inside the Bean, and Arthur only breathed again when they found a tiny table at the back of the storefront.

*

Lance sat on the couch in Arthur’s loft, the TV on without sound, the images flickering over his face, the only light coming courtesy of the Van Gogh plug in night light. He licked his dry lips and finished sipping at his latte, the drink ultra cold and yucky, but it was the principle of the thing. His car was parked in Arthur’s driveway, the other man having kindly moved his Toyota so Lance could leave the behemoth in a safe place for the night.

He removed the cold pack Arthur had forced him to put on his eye and jaw, flexing his mouth open and closed, hissing when the pain returned. He looked at the container of ibuprofen next to him, but shook his head. He hated prescription drugs. Addictive shit.

_Flush the toilet please._

_Why?_

_Just do it._

All that coke, down the drain. His father’s money, spent so easily on drugs and whores and anything that it took to make Lancelot happy. A fucking haircut.

He’d thrown up on Arthur’s stairs, had broken his own nose by headbutting the punching bag in Arthur’s workout room, had sliced open the skin over his eyebrow. He’d humiliated himself and had done stupid things to those reporters – thank the gods the cops that had shown up had been some Arthur had known and they had convinced the reporters to not press charges. Lance could have pressed charges on them as well; they’d given him a black eye and a fat lip. So fuck them. And then Arthur had roared up on his bike, knight in shining – well, black – armor and had taken Lance inside the Bean and had gotten him a coffee and hadn’t let anyone stare at him.

Why couldn’t Carri have just cut his hair?

He tugged at the long curls and brushed annoyedly at the one that tickled his right lobe. Arthur had told him it was sexy and to leave it alone; he didn’t need a haircut and things would look better in the morning. Things would look better once Lance had gotten used to going to classes and had gotten used to life having changed and things would look better when he could eat normally again and when he could actually want something besides caffeine.

Lance raised his legs and wrapped his arms around his shins; the soft sweats he wore smelled like Arthur’s laundry and he leaned forward and sniffed his knee cap. He rubbed his cheek on the fabric and laid his forehead down on his knee, the smell rising, filling his nostrils, and calming his slamming heart. He tightened his grip on his legs and ignored the burn that filled his throat and his eyes.

Things were way harder than they needed to be. Arthur had been drunk the other night, and Lance had found that damn cross out by his bedside, and things weren’t going to be better in the morning. Things were going to be hard for the rest of his life, and fuck’s sake can’t a man just live his life and love his Arthur and get a damn hair cut.

He sniffed and rubbed at his nose, crying out softly when he realized he’d forgotten about the break. Gods, it hurt.

“Come to bed, Lance.”

Arthur’s hand on his bare shoulder.

He sniffed again, and looked up at Arthur, the other man’s stubble standing out against the whiteness of his face, the green eyes startling in the gloom of the living room. He put out his hand and waited in silence for Lance to take it.

Biting his lip, Lance worried the flesh between his teeth, and finally slid his hand into Arthur’s, standing up, waiting for direction, to be told what to do, where to go, what to say and how to feel.

“Come to bed, my heart.”

Lance felt something break inside him then, _my heart_ , the weird thoughts and the obsessive behavior and the – _fuck, did I hit people out on the street?_ \- awfulness of everything washed over him, causing him to moan, Arthur’s name part of the nonsense of the sound. Arthur’s face crunched and he pulled Lance to him, slipping warm strong arms around Lance, the broadness of his chest and shoulders enveloping Lance in an embrace that forced noises out of Lance he’d otherwise be too proud and too ashamed to make.

They were almost the same height, and Lance could bury his face in Arthur’s neck comfortably, could taste the salty skin and feel the calm beat of Arthur’s heart there in his jugular. He sucked in a breath, smelling Arthur, feeling Arthur, forgetting the craziness of the day and the past few weeks and his awful, weird actions.

Arthur pressed a tight kiss to his forehead, as if he were giving a benediction, and Lance thought he heard Arthur murmur his name – or was it God?

Smooth skin, smooth muscle, squeezing arms and home.

Lance allowed Arthur to pull him up the stairs, past the place he’d vomited, past the place where they’d once made frantic, noisy, laughing love, past the door to the bathroom where they’d shared a shower too many times for Lance to count. The bed was big and familiar and Arthur had put on the wine colored sheets Lance loved so much, and Lance curled on his side as he was pillowed by the mattress and Arthur’s chest against his back.

Lance shivered despite the warmth, and his nose ached, and he tried to forget. His hands tangled with Arthur’s and he imagined them filled with guns instead – the cold steel foreign but not.

He gripped at Arthur’s fingers more tightly.

~

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2010. Edited in 2019.
> 
> Thank you for reading/commenting. :)


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